by Robert Ian Bowers
Clovis hatched out of his egg.
The room was blurry.
“Happy Birthday, Clovis.”
Now Clovis could make out a tall woman all dressed in white. She was handing him a plate of birthday cake, with a tiny fork that fit
Clovis’ hand just perfectly.
Clovis had never tasted anything so good. Actually, Clovis had never tasted anything at all, for he was just born. But birthday cake seemed like a good start.
The nurse had a suit prepared for him, pressed and folded, sitting on a short stool. Clovis hadn’t even noticed that he had eaten his birthday cake entirely in the nude, though the nurse later assured him that this was entirely normal.
The nurse gave Clovis a greeting card from his parents. He couldn’t read himself, but she told him what it said: some general well-wishing and happy birthdays. There was a funny picture on the front, which Clovis couldn’t exactly make out. But the nurse assured him that it was quite funny.
Clovis donned the suit, and took the greeting card under his arm. This was all he had, but that was good, because he was so small he could barely have carried anything else. The nurse escorted him to the front door of the hospital and waved him off. He was sorry to leave the nurse. He had grown quite fond of her, though he didn’t have the words to express this.
But once he turned to walk into the outside, he began to wonder all about what he might find, what other good things might be out there, maybe other things as good as nurses and birthday cake.
About Robert Ian Bowers
Robert Ian Bowers earned his PhD. in Cognitive Science and Animal Behaviour at Indiana University, and now studies animal cognition at the University of Minho.